Dream of the Sea
by selkiewish
Summary: Faelinn has been left for dead in the remains of The Company's last stand. With both legs crippled and Saxons roaming the battlefield his life is not yet secure. What must he do to survive the mess he marched into?


He came to slowly, the pain in his legs threatening to drag him under again with every breath he took. Through slited eyelids, Faelinn could see pale sunlight filtering through the branches overhead. The air felt damp on his forehead, and he could see wisps of fog twinned in the leafy boughs above. It must be dawn then. With a deep, shuddering breath Faelinn banished the last of the mist from his head and opened his eyes fully, sitting up and looking about himself for a sign as to why he was still alive. The battlefield was horrible. The bodies of friends and foe alike were strewn across the blood stained grass like so much kindling, broken and nearly unrecognizable. He could see many more Saxons than Brittons though, and that made him glad. The Saxons had paid dearly for every life they took. The Company had lost, of course, but then they were never ment to win. It was to be their final march, their last raid. They had made a good accounting for themselves from the looks of the vale, but Faelinn was the only one still living as far as he could see. Moving his head ever so slowly to look at his legs Faelinn was able to see the source of his salvation. His horse had be struck down by an ax to the shoulder, causing the beast to fall on his master, hiding him from the enemy in the heat of battle. He remembered now, the short man on the tall horse who had thrown his heavy war ax with the grace of long experience, and the sound of his own head striking a rock when he fell. He had tried to dismount as he had been taught, but had misjudged the situation so that he had ended up of the horse but with no time to move away from it as it fell. He had ended up both his legs crushed by the falling animal and knocked unconscious by the rocks he fell on. Prosper and Cynan must not have noticed him fall, or had thought him dead. Reaching up to touch the back of his head he found a sizable lump and a lot of blood, and wondered himself why he hadn't cracked his skull on the rock. Faelinn lay down again, gently, so as not to hurt himself farther, and tried to think.

He tried to think of the past, of the future, but his pain locked him firmly in the present. He could think of nothing but the pain in his legs and head. His legs were the worst. They were in all probability broken by the weight of the horse, possibly in multiple places. There was no way he would be able to get away from the battle field with out help. He would never be able to get out from under the horse on his own, and he couldn't walk. He might never walk again. If he was going to live he would need help, and soon. But from whom? His company was slaughtered. Soon the remaining Saxons would start cleaning the tattered battle field, striping the bodies of any valuables and then burying their dead and burning the bodies of The Company. They would find him then, trapped under his horse. They would most likely simply slit his throat and burn him with the rest. So, he had riden to his death with the remainder of his company, failed to die honorably in battle, and was now going to have his throat slit like a crippled dog. What would his father say? A wiry grin made him wince. His father would probably say it was to be expected. You set out on a fools mission you die a fools death. Yes, that's exactly what his father would say. Faelinn was the oldest son of Cuall ap Redynvar, who had been shield bearer to king Urian of Rheged when the king had summed his warband to attack the Saxon invaders. Urian and then his son had been slain in the battles that followed, and Cuall had seen the British forces obliterated by the Saxons superior numbers. He now believed that it was no use fighting the Saxons; they must simply be born, there was no sure way of getting rid of them. When Faelinn had been made a shield bearer to Peredur of Caer Luil his father had been pleased, but when Faelinn told him that Peredur intended to answer the summons of King Mynyddog the Golden, who was reportedly gathering a company of young nobles and their shield bearers to apose the invaders, he was furious. He forbade Faelinn to go, calling Peredur a fools fool to join with a doomed company and lost cause. Faelinn had gone anyway, in the end; being sixteen and a man he could serve who he liked. Though, as he remembered the incident now, his father had been right.

King Mynyddog had formed a company of three hundred men, all second sons of kings or lesser lords, and each with two shield bearers, making the total number nine hundred warriors. He had fed them, housed them, and trained them for a year, crafting a company to beat all others, and had then sent them ahead of his footsoldiers to strike the first blow against the the Saxon king Aethelfrith and his army. The Company had gone, and struck a sizable blow, but the footsoldiers never followed. The Company had carried the fight single handedly as long as they could, but the Saxons were a formidable foe, and more and more of The Company were lost until less than three hundred men remained from the nine hundred that had riden out from Dyn Eidin. Peredur had been killed, and Faelinn's fellow shield bearer. Faelinn knew by that time that he was not long to follow. Knowing this, he excepted it. Death was a warriors due, and he went to it gladly. The Company had been camped in an abandoned Roman fort, with the Saxons surrounding them on all sides. When they knew that no help was to come, it was decided that the remainder of The Company was to make a final change against the shield ring, and take as many of the enemy with them as they could. The only other option was to stay holed up in the fort, eating horse meat and grass until the Saxons broke in and slaughtered them, and that was no death for a warrior of King Mynyddogs company. The bard Aneirin was to break free, and bring news of the death of The Company to Dyn Eidin, but for the rest, they would ride into their last battle in the formation the had fought their first in. It was called the Arrowhead and was formed by a warrior flanked by two shield bearers. Faelinn, having lost his master, was chosen by a Lord who had lost his shield bearers as a replacement, along with a boy named Prosper. He and Prosper had not had an easy history, but all past grievances were put aside in honor of the coming charge. So Lord Cynan rode with Faelinn and Prosper to battle, and what a battle it was.

The Saxons were taken completely by surprise, the chaos was immense. Faelinn remembered, with some surprise, that he hadn't been scared. He had been angry. He remembered riding next to Prosper and thinking of his family. His father's pride and joy when Faelinn taught himself to ride, the sound of his little sister singing from the highest branch of the oak tree beside the house, his mother's grave in under a hawthorne tree covered with fallen blossoms in the spring. Last of all he thought of Ailia, the way her eyes shone when she beat him in a race or planned some mischief for them to work on the household. The way she smiled when she saw him, and her clear voice singing in the hall. Ailia had loved the sea, and he had often gone there with her. On his last day at home, before he was to ride out with Peredur, she had given him an earring of blue sea glass, and he fingered it now as he thought of her. He would never see her again, he realised. Neither her nor his family. This was it for Faelinn ap Cuall. At first he was filled with sorrow, and then his sadness turned to anger. He had been cheated by the gods. This wasn't supposed to end in death, it was to have been a glorious victory for the Britons. He was supposed to ride home in glory, hauling enough treasure to give expensive gifts to his family. There was to be bracelets for his sister, a new horse for his father, and for Ailia...for Ailia a belt of silk and sea glass beads, and maybe the beginnings of a house on the cliffs by the sea. All that was gone now, all because of the Saxons and king Mynyddog. Rage rose within him, charged the Saxons with more vigor than he ever had previously, throwing all caution to the wind in the heat of his final battle. He fought like one possessed, screaming like a diving falcon and striking at anyone within reach of his sword. He could see Prosper doing much the same when he chanced to look to the right, and Cynan battled with spear and sword at once, until a Saxon war ax took the spearhead of the shaft. And then came the stocky Saxon rider, with a bushy beard and a strong arm, and a horse at least two feet taller than he was, who threw his ax into the shoulder of Faelinns horse.

And now here he was, flat on his back, legs crushed by the bulk of the self same horse, in the middle of a battle field, awaiting his fate at the hands of the Saxon invaders.


End file.
